Table Manners
by Zsra187
Summary: If someone looked at her now, they'd know. Surely, they must know. PWP.
1. Table Manners

**Table Manners**

Her eyes flicker back and forth over the dimly lit ballroom. The night is alive with wine and song and everyone is well into their cups by now; laughing, jesting, occasionally bursting into off-key renditions of 'The Rains of Castamere.' It makes Sansa flinch to listen to them; the last thing she needs to hear is another espousal of the might of House Lannister. She picks at the lemoncakes on her plate. She used to love feasts when she was a girl. Her mother and father would sit at the head of the hall, surrounded by their children and bannermen, resplendent in their love for each other. There was laughter and singing there too, only not of death and the destruction of houses. Sansa would ask for the Ballad of Florian and Jonquil, and Arya would moan and roll her eyes, but Sansa always got her way. She would chat with Jeyne Pool all night, and the two of them would sip their wine carefully as ladies should do, although they would laugh at the red stain on their lips afterwards, as ladies should not. Looking around, she could see no one here that she could chat to. No one here that even paid her much attention.

Lord Tyrion wasn't present, and neither was the queen, nor the Hand. The imp had neglected to join the feast, instead choosing to dine in his rooms. Perhaps he was feeling bitter, Sansa guessed, that he was no longer Hand of the King, and no longer privy to the advantages that it had afforded him. Tywin Lannister was absent as well, although that was not as much of a surprise; he so rarely attended such inappropriate displays of self-importance and flattery. Cersei left the ballroom once the entertainment had started, sauntering back to her chambers, wine goblet in hand. Now there is only Joffrey left, lounging on his gilded chair in that way that terrifies her, flanked on either side by two members of the Kingsguard, a busty serving girl sitting in his lap.

Sansa eyes them with distaste. _He wouldn't dare do that if his mother were here. _Lannister or not, she feels safer when the queen is present, for there are some things that even Joffrey won't subject his mother to. But alas, she is not here, so now it's best that she doesn't draw attention to herself.

Head down, she does her best to ignore the revelry around her. Only she cannot. There is something… something she cannot quite put her finger on. It makes the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand straight on end, makes her cheeks flush. She takes a quick glance up, and her eyes go straight to his. Yes, it is him, unmistakeable. He is no longer Joffrey's sworn shield, although the young king tried hard to overthrow his grandfather in that regard. But there he stands, back to the wall, staring straight at her. _Losing his place on the kingsguard must have changed him, _she remarks to herself. _He never did that before._

She turns quickly, looking away, feels her cheeks heat up further as she does so. She berates herself for it; _do not be embarrassed. You have caught him staring, not the other way around. _Her eyes drift back to him, and yes, his gaze is still glued upon her. _I'll have a song from you…_

She needs wine. She reaches for her goblet and takes a gulp, almost choking as she forces down the mouthful of liquid, a stronger vintage than that to which she is usually accustomed. She coughs violently, her hand placed delicately in front of her mouth, for a moment embarrassed that he should witness her in such an unladylike a position. But when she looks again he is gone, and her heart sinks in disappointment, though she cannot say why.

There is nothing for her to stay for now. She wants to leave, but she's certain that Joffrey won't allow her to go. _Perhaps I should say that I am taken unwell?_ If she fainted right into the spiced plum pudding Joffrey would _have_ to allow her leave, perhaps she should try that? She wracks her brains, paying no attention to the goings on around her, completely oblivious, even to the dark, hulking figure that crosses the room and strides up the side of the ballroom towards her.

She lifts her eyes in time to meet his as he comes towards her, her mouth parting in surprise to see him there. His gaze burns into hers, making her skin prickle with a hot intensity that rushes through her veins like a fire. She no longer fears to look into his eyes; since that night, hardly anything about him scares her anymore. He stole a kiss and forced her to sing him a song, but he offered to take her away, to rescue her from this place. He _cried_ in her arms, a broken man, as green fire filled the sky. _If he was a broken man then, he certainly should be now, _she thinks. He was caught at the gates that night, unable to leave the city, and found the next morning is a pool of his own vomit on Sowbelly Row. He was dragged back to the Red Keep, Sansa heard from one of her handmaidens, and stripped of the white cloak by Tywin Lannister himself. Since then he'd been relegated to the status of an ordinary sellsword, albeit with a slightly more ferocious reputation. Plus, he was still allowed within the walls of the Red Keep. When she thought about it, Sansa considered his punishment by the Lannisters to be uncharacteristically light. _Maybe that's why he looks so unconcerned_, she thinks.

He stops and stands next to her where she sits, at the end of the long table. He's so tall that she has to crane her neck to look at him, which she does, bravely staring right up at him. He leans forward and takes a goblet of wine, _her_ goblet, lifts it to his lips and drains it dry. Sansa watches every action with rapt attention, every minute movement of his face, his hands, her eyes glued to his Adams apple as he gulps down her drink. Her lips part and her cheeks heat.

'You're blushing, little bird.'

For a moment she wants to cry. She'd never thought to hear that voice, that name, ever again. _Little bird._

'Yes,' she breathes. It's the first word she's uttered to him since that night, but she doesn't know what else to say. He's struck her dumb. _I'll have a song from you…_

He sets the goblet back down on the table, only he places it too close to the edge for it to balance; it tips over, hitting the floor with a clang unheard in the raucous hall and rolls underneath the long linen tablecloth that drapes over the side of the table. Her gaze follows as he drops to one knee and lifts the cloth, reaching one arm under the table to retrieve it… and her eyes widen as his long fingers brush against her ankle.

Maybe it's an accident. Maybe he's done it on purpose. She doesn't know, doesn't particularly care; the only thing she knows for certain is that she wants him to touch her again. Just another touch, another innocent brush of the fingers. It's been all she can think about, since that night.

What she doesn't expect, what she could never have foreseen in a thousand years, is what he does next. With a fluidity and ease completely unexpected in a man of such size, he ducks his entire body under the cloth, letting it fall back into place as he disappears completely under the table. Her mouth opens in a breathless gasp of surprise. _What does he think he is doing? Surely he doesn't need to go all the way under himself just to reach it? _The noise in the ballroom is louder now; the laughter, shouting, swearing, singing and drumming unite in her head, thickening her blood, pounding away in her ears in time with the heavy beating of her heart. She starts to think that surely, _surely_ he must have found it by now. It's only when he lifts her foot from the floor and slides off her shoe that she realises… this has nothing to do with the wine goblet.

His hands are huge, just like she remembered. He holds her foot in both his palms, strong fingers pressing hard, delicious, into the soft underside of her instep. They move upwards, past her ankle, up her calf towards her knee. Her skirt doesn't survive the onslaught from his hands –yard upon yard of heavy embroidered silk ruffle up, exposing an utterly indecent amount of her leg. Above the table, Sansa can't believe what he's doing. If it weren't her own body that was subject to his ministrations, she would have dismissed the whole idea as a silly daydream, a scene plucked straight from the song of lovers. But this _is_ real, she isn't imagining it. She isn't imagining that the Hound is under the table, between her legs; that it is his hands finding the hem of her silken stocking just above the knee, his fingers rolling it down and off her foot.

Her skin is bare to him now, and he carries on his ministrations, once again caressing the ball and heel of her foot before smoothing up her leg. His fingers explore as they go, never keeping still, but pinching, circling, squeezing her flesh, as if trying to get as much of her in hand as possible. Above the table Sansa is breathing hard, the illicit touch of his warm skin on hers making her feel faint. _How can he be doing this? How can I be letting him do this?_ Right in front of everyone, it was absolutely wrong, morally depraved. Of course, it wasn't really _in front _of anyone, and besides, absolutely no one was paying attention to her. They liked to ignore her usually; they had done when she had been Joffrey's betrothed, beaten to within an inch of her life almost every day, and even more so once he had ended their betrothal. Now she was just that Stark girl, the traitor's daughter, the young wolf's sister, not worth a second glance. And right now, it's a fact for which she is immensely grateful.

Nevertheless, she's tries hard to remain calm, to control her breathing, lest someone look her way. But it's an impossible task. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her knee and her mouth drops. His touch feels just like it did that night; hard, cruel lips, an unyielding mouth. She remembers how she felt when he pressed her down into the featherbed, his knife at her throat, their faces only an inch from one another – it terrified her then, but now it makes her stomach pull tight. He could have done anything he wanted to her, taken anything from her, and she'd have been powerless to resist. She feels like that now, powerless, under his control. He is at her feet, but she is under his spell. She couldn't get up and walk away now, even if she tried.

His big hands flutter up to her waist, smooth themselves over her hips, and her heart pounds madly in her chest as his fingers begin to fumble with the string of her undergarments. He unties the knot and suddenly his hands are there, where no man's hands have ever been before, delving right into her smallclothes. Just the thought of it makes her dizzy. He strokes her gently, the soft skin of her belly, the burgeoning roundness of her hips, before curling his fingers around the cotton and yanking them down. It's rough, and sudden, and Sansa barely has the time to lift herself off the chair a few inches to help him get them off before he's accomplished the task, clearly too impatient to wait.

Now there is absolutely nothing stopping him. Sansa feels completely and utterly exposed as those burned lips travel even further, closer and closer to the juncture of her thighs, rough hands pushing her legs wider apart under the table. His closeness is intoxicating, but suddenly and without warning, as though he has decided she just isn't close _enough_, his hands curl around the underside of her thighs and thrust upwards. Sansa almost yelps as her legs lift cleanly off the seat of the chair, throwing her backwards in the process, and come to rest upon his broad shoulders. The sudden movement takes a bit of re-positioning on both their parts. Her body automatically (almost unconsciously, it seems) shuffles forward, until her bottom just rests upon the edge of the seat, and he moves forward his head now firmly in place between her parted thighs. Only he goes a bit too far, and…

'Bugger!'

There's a loud thump, and every plate, goblet and wine jug on the table shakes. Sansa feels a laugh bubble in her throat. She's almost surprised he's managed as far as he has without hitting his head, considering how tall he is. She looks quickly down the table to see if anyone's attention has fallen upon them, but everyone else is far too occupied to have noticed. _Or too drunk to care, by the looks of most of them. _Mace Tyrell, (the Fat Flower they call him) sits in the chair next to her. He's passed out from the drink, slumped over the table like a dead man, and Sansa utters a prayer of thanks to the Seven for that.

She dares to take a peek under the tablecloth now. His mouth is pressed against her thigh, hands gently, firmly, stroking her skin. Without trying to make it completely obvious that she's engaging in conversation with someone underneath the table, she whispers, her mouth barely moving. 'Are you alright?'

'Aye, bloody table.' He looks up at her, eyes dark and swirling. 'Don't you dare fucking move,' he rasps, before he lowers his mouth right onto her, right _there._

It feels like heaven; like a bright, burning light inside of her, rolling and unrolling deep down into her core. She's never felt like this before, never, _not ever, _and the breath she releases is a great, shuddering exhale of pleasure, so unladylike, so _wanton._ His tongue pushes firmly against her, gliding over tender, sensitive skin before delving down lap at her entrance, like a dog laps at his water bowl. Her muscles squeeze so tightly that Sansa almost cannot bear it.

She hadn't ever thought that a man could even do this to a woman. Septa Mordane and her mother had explained the act of copulation to her; Lady Catelyn explaining it as an act of love between a man and a woman, while Septa Mordane rather stressed the duty and obligation of the act. '_To be fruitful, Sansa. Little heirs and heiresses, that is the purpose of intercourse. You'll understand soon enough, when you're married yourself.' _Sansa always just assumed that when the time came, she would just lie back and think of… well, think of her brave and gallant husband of course. But the main thing was for the man to have his pleasure, so her belly could soon be full with child.

But neither of them had ever said anything about this. That a man could pleasure a woman so, it was something that Sansa never could have imagined, not in her wildest dreams. He presses himself so hard against her skin it feels as though he is trying to devour her, and she bites her lip hard; it's all she can do to keep herself from whimpering. It isn't until his tongue flicks over a particularly sensitive pearl of flesh that she gasps, her eyes fluttering closed of their own accord. To look at her now, Septa Mordane would probably be horrified; she leans back in her chair, her posture unforgivably lax, forearms resting on the armrests of the chair rather than at her side, eyes closed. If it weren't for the look of utter pleasure on her face, and the fact that her hands keep clenching and unclenching with every spasm of delight, she could almost be asleep.

'My dear, are you quite alright?'

The voice comes from her left, dragging her out of the whirling haze of lust the Hound had immersed her in. She turns her head towards the voice, and finds a woman standing there, watching her closely. She has sharp eyes and a handsome face, though with a few slight lines around the eyes. Lord Mathis Rowan's wife, perhaps? Sansa cannot think. _Oh, gods. _Her tongue is thick and her mind can barely keep up with her mouth, and she blurts out a response. 'What?'

The woman's eyebrows raise at her unladylike response. Sansa attempts to rectify the situation, all the while trying to ignore him under the table, his open mouth latched onto that pearl, suckling and licking, making her insides writhe with pleasure. She sits up, her back ramrod straight, which was no easy feat with her legs hoisted so far up off the floor. 'Pardons, my lady?'

'I asked if you were alright, my dear. You're looking rather flushed.'

'Yes I'm fine, thank you. I think….' Her voice hitches as his teeth graze against that sensitive bundle of nerves. '…I think I've had too much wine.'

'I think you have,' the woman smiles at her. She waits a moment, taking in Sansa's glazed eyes and laboured breathing. 'Are you sure? You look close to fainting, child.'

'I'm quite sure,' Sansa replies, eager for the woman to be on her way. 'In fact, I think I'll return to my rooms in a moment, but I'll just wait here first, for… for my head to clear.'

She stumbles over her words, too distracted by the glorious sensations rippling through her lower body. Nevertheless, the lady seems satisfied with her answer, and turns. Sansa watches her go, teeth worrying at her lip as she walks away. _Thank the gods. _She hopes the woman didn't suspect anything, although now she thinks she might be past the point of caring. She feels so utterly absorbed in her own lust that she wouldn't give a fig if every single person knew what was happening to her right now. A rush of arousal floods her veins as she's suddenly struck with the image of herself and the Hound doing this, whatever _this_ is, in front of the whole court, right on the floor of this great hall. They all would watch, open-mouthed, as he kissed her soundly, plundered the most secret parts of her body with his tongue alone, caressed her over and over until she came undone in his arms. Another wave of pleasure rolled through her as she imagined Joffrey's face, his petulant scowl turning to a murderous look of outrage as he watched his own dog and once betrothed making love on the floor…

Her stomach is tightening, an almost unbearable sensation that makes Sansa want to scream aloud. Her posture has gone again, and she finds herself leaning backwards, elbows resting of the armrests of the chair, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing. _Try to remain calm, just keep calm. _She repeats the mantra over and over, only it's an impossible task. The Hound is merciless in his onslaught under the table, his fingers now joining his tongue in exploring her swollen, tenderised skin. He sinks one finger into her and she just manages to suppress a whimper; then he adds another and a very unladylike noise rips from her throat before she can stop it. She glances quickly at Mace Tyrell, only he's still unconscious, and she thanks the gods once more that there's no one on her other side to hear her moans of pleasure. Pushing herself up a little bit straighter, she tries to focus her eyes on something, _anything_ in front of her, only it's no use. She's too far gone now, that throbbing feeling between her thighs has almost reached it's peak, she can tell. Her heart pounds in her chest, her breath comes in little pants as the Hound licks and sucks below, his fingers stroking rhythmically inside of her. If someone looked at her now with any real attention, they'd know, surely they _must _know. Her muscles spasm, she feels a rush of wetness seep out from between her thighs, moans softly when it's dutifully lapped up by the man kneeling between her legs. Her chest is heaving, and she closes her eyes, turning her head to the side as the feeling overtakes her. Her legs tremble and her whole body goes rigid for a moment as every muscle in her lower body starts to pulse, sending waves of sweet pleasure through her. His fingers are still deep within her, and through the haze she hears him groan as she clenches and unclenches around him, a thousand tiny contractions all in the one utterly delicious moment. The feeling is so intense that she throws caution to the wind, letting out a wild moan that gets swallowed up immediately by the noisy crowd.

She isn't sure how long the feeling lasts. A few seconds maybe? A few minutes? An hour? She doesn't know. The only thing of which she is absolutely, positively sure, was that she wanted to feel it again. Her entire being tingled; her legs, her arms, even her insides, and she was breathing as though she'd just run a hundred leagues. Cracking her eyes open, she's immediately faced with the sight of Joffrey, still sitting in his chair with that girl in his lap. Strangely, the sight makes her smile. _She's welcome to him._

Now she turns her attention to the man underneath the table. She cannot see his face, which is completely hidden, and she is suddenly glad, because she knows that when he next looks upon her, her own cheeks will be flaming red. Instead, she pushes her hand beneath the table, searching for him blindly. Her palm comes into contact with hard, twisted skin and she strokes gently, knowing that she has the side of his face in her hand. _Just like that night_,she thinks, and her heart flutters when he turns his face, and places a gentle kiss in her palm.

She doesn't know what it is that makes her do it. Some spirited madness probably, she thinks, seems to have taken control of this evening. She cares not for the proper boundaries of propriety, nothing now for the sanctity of the marriage bed. Gently, carefully, she lifts her legs from his shoulders and places her feet back on the floor. Lifting up the tablecloth, she finds him underneath it, his face still buried in her lap. 'Ser?'

He looks at her, eyes dark, and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

She hesitates, but only for a second, then she whispers, her voice low and trembling. 'Come with me.'

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading. Reviews are _greatly_ apreciated!


	2. Returning the Favour

**Returning the Favour**

_Click, click, click…_

The sound of her heeled slippers on the cold flagstones of the passageway echo through the quietness of the Red Keep. They are a long way from the feast now. The boisterous singing and wild peals of laughter fade as she walks - as briskly as she can without drawing attention to herself – away from the hall, and now there is only a deafening silence, punctuated only by the dull clunking of his armour as he follows behind, and the click of her shoes as she strides along in front.

_Click click, click click, click click…_

The clicking has a rhythm now. It's faster, stronger, and she wonders if it's because she's sped up, legs working furiously fast to get herself as far away from the feast as possible, lest someone notice she's missing and come to find her. Or even bump into her here in the South corridor, a thousand miles away from the hall or her chamber, or anywhere else that she is supposed to be. But of course, that's silly, she tells herself. _You haven't passed anyone since you left the feast, and you most likely won't now._ That was true; they had left merriment and lightness behind them and were now descending into the shadowy black silence of Maegors Holdfast; even the torches in the brackets flickered dangerously low as she passed. _One strong gust of wind and I'll be plunged into darkness. _

She has no idea of where she's going. She doesn't even have any idea of what she wants to do when she gets there. For a second she thinks that she'd be completely happy to walk in circles all night, her feet mercilessly pounding the flagstones, never reaching her destination until she could climb, exhausted, into her bed at sunrise. But he's following her, expecting, _expecting_…. expecting what? There's a rush in her stomach and a shiver along her spine as her mind returns to the hall. To him on his knees under the table, his head between her parted thighs, his tongue sweeping across her, _tasting _her from the inside out. Is that what he's expecting? Is that what she wants to give him? When that feeling had overcome her in the hall - that hysteria that had taken hold of her, and made her want to laugh and moan and weep tears of joy all at the same time – when that pleasure shook her body so intensely, it made her lose her rationale completely. It left her weak and boneless. The words had spilled out of her mouth then unbidden, uncontrolled and unrestrained. _Come with me. _After that, she had stood from her chair, as demurely as she could, and exited the hall, without giving a single look behind her to check if he was following.

Now that mad courage appears to have abandoned her. Her intestines twist and her pulse flutters madly in her neck, and she recognises that sick feeling in her stomach. _Butterflies._ She just doesn't know what to do. She wants to turn around and face him, announce that she has no idea where they're going or what she plans to do once they get there, and ask that he escort her back to her room this instant. The idea is dismissed almost as soon as she thinks of it. He'd only laugh at her, and if there's one thing she cannot bear at this moment, it is his scorn.

So she walks on, mind furiously spinning and lungs heaving, until he stops her in her tracks.

His hand claps heavily on her shoulder and she spins around. It's almost a surprise to see him there, so close to her after walking for so long with him trailing behind. He reaches for her face and takes hold of her jaw, his fingers pinching painfully, just like they've always done. Only this time, he doesn't need to pull up her face to meet his; Sansa lifts her chin and her eyes search his in earnest.

'What are you doing, little bird?' His voice is a rasp, like steel on stone.

She flushes, and looks down at her feet. 'I don't know.'

He stares at her for a moment, then lets her go and takes a step back. Sansa narrows her eyes at the gap that forms between them; she's struck with the sudden urge to step forward towards him to close it. The silence between them grows, almost suffocating in its quiet awkwardness.

It's strange to be standing here with him in silence. They haven't even properly spoken since that night. He'd held a knife to her throat then, and forced her down on the bed. She'd been terrified, but when it was over and he had gone, it had all seemed so _different. _He'd offered to take her home, to take care of her. She knew, from that moment on, that he wouldn't hurt her, despite all his harsh words, his cruel and biting anger. It's that realisation that propels her on now, to ask him the question she'd been wondering ever since that night.

'Why did you offer to take me away?'

If he's surprised at her sudden audacity, he doesn't show it. 'Still chirping, aren't you little bird?'

It's a slightly unfair statement, she thinks, but eventually he gives her a proper reply. 'I was too fucking pissed to think straight, that's why.'

Sansa deflates at his explanation. 'I thought… you said that you would keep me safe if I came with you.'

'Aye,' he replies bitterly. 'That was a stupid fucking idea if ever I'd had one.'

'Don't say that,' Sansa pleads, horrified that he could ever think her escape from King's Landing would be a stupid idea. 'I should have gone with you that night.' He regards her intently, so she presses on. 'I've regretted that I didn't ever since.'

Quick as a flash, he's right at her side, his fingers wrapped around her dainty wrist in an iron grip that makes her gasp. 'Don't lie to me.'

'I'm not, I swear, I…'

She stops. She can hear footsteps along the flagstones, two voices talking, getting louder and louder, closer and closer. The Hound hears them too, and for a moment, she stares up the darkened corridor, waiting for whomever it is to walk upon them. But the man next to her has quicker reflexes. She barely has a second to react before he drags her along the walkway, through an archway and a heavy oak door, into blackness.

When her eyes adjust to the dark she realises they're in a long room. The large windows at the opposite end of the chamber are thrown open and the light of the moon outside streams in, throwing everything into pale glow. There is a large table in the centre of the chamber and a dozen chairs placed around it, although they are not tucked under but scattered haphazardly, as though there was a meeting here earlier that had suddenly been adjourned.

Suddenly she realises just how close they are; they are standing less than a foot apart. He still has her wrisy in his tight grip, and it makes her wince, so she pushes him away with her hand.

'Who was that?' She thought everyone was at the feast.

'I don't bloody know. We'll wait here until they're gone, then I'll escort you back to your room.'

Her stomach sinks in disappointment._ He's going to take me back to my rooms, and forget this ever happened._ The thought troubles her more than it should have, and her shoulders practically slump in regret.

'Oh.'

His heavy black eyebrows quirk upwards at her response. 'Did you have other plans, little bird?'

His question prompts a thousand illicit scenes flash across her mind. She imagines him pressing her against the wall and pulling her body close to his, pictures him laying her down on a bed covered with furs and kissing her soundly, or naming _her_ Queen of Love and Beauty when he wins the next kings tourney. Then her blood thickens and she blushes deeper as she imagines him pleasuring her again, in that way he had done earlier. Were those really the plans she had upon coming here? Her body yearns for it, but she knows she can never admit it to him.

Nevertheless, the look on her face must give her away. Not saying a word, he takes a step away from her, kicks it around to face him and throws himself upon it.

'Come here, girl.'

He leans forward and she gasps in surprise when he grabs her hand and gives her a hard yank. She falls, loose limbed and as lifeless as a rag doll, into his lap. Her arms automatically rest themselves on his broad shoulders and her fingers twitch as she resists the urge to wrap her hands around the back of his neck in an embrace. Once again, she barely has time to register this new series of developments before his hand pulls her face towards his and he kisses her.

It is nothing like the chaste, romantic kiss that Joffrey had once given her. It isn't even the quick, mischievous peck on the lips that she had once received from Theon Greyjoy as a dare when she was young. _This is a man's kiss, _she thinks with satisfaction.His mouth plunders hers and his hands roam across her body, scooping under her bottom to lift and press her closer into him. For a moment she is too stunned to respond, but when she feels his tongue glide against hers, she pulls away in astonishment.

Sansa doesn't know why she should feel so surprised at the feel of his tongue against hers, especially after what he had done to her earlier. It's such an illicit feeling, but it's just a bit too fast. She wants to kiss him innocently first, put her lips to his and feel his skin underneath hers.

Slowly and ever so carefully, she leans forward and presses her closed lips to the corner of his mouth. His skin feels twisted and taut and she pulls away before returning to kiss him gently again. Her heart flutters madly in the cage of her chest, beating against her ribs like the delicate wings of a butterfly. The intimacy of their position sets her pulse racing; their faces are only an inch apart, she had never thought she would be so close to him. _This night has changed a lot of things,_ she thinks. _Nothing will be the same after this. _

He lets her do that for a while; kiss him sweetly all over, on his cheeks and chin and even on the burned side of his face. He is impossibly still as she does so, even his hands come to rest in their exploration of her body. She can feel how tense he is beneath her, like a coiled spring, waiting and ready to jump into action. Finally feeling more comfortable with their proximity, she leans close to press an open mouthed kiss right onto his lips. He seems to take that as a sign, for he deepens the kiss, his lips slanting against hers. A sudden boldness overcomes her, and Sansa hesitantly strokes her tongue against his.

The world stops turning and an incredible feeling swells inside of her as they kiss each other deeply. It is not as intense as the pleasure that had engulfed her earlier, but she feels it no less keenly. It spreads from her lips, down through her bloodstream to her fingers and the tips of her toes, making her giddy and light headed, filling her with wonder. Instead of feeling embarrassed or even slightly repelled, she only feels a thrill to be doing something so intimate as touching his tongue with her own. Her hands flutter up to the side of his face and bury themselves in his hair, and without thinking she gently pulls the strands in a desperate effort to get herself as close to him as possible.

His mouth moves down. He kisses her jaw and the delicate and sensitive skin of her neck. His teeth bite down on her ear lobe before he returns to her eagerly awaiting mouth. Sansa remains breathless and trembling throughout it all; she had never imagined kisses could be filled with such passion and heat. Her entire body tingles from the sensation, and she knows he feels the same way – she can feel the hard evidence of it against her bottom.

It all feels very grown up and romantic._ Just like in the songs. _She wants to laugh and tell him that they are the very embodiment of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight, but she keeps quiet, knowing how much it will infuriate him. She doesn't want this moment to end the way of their conversation on the battlements a few couple of weeks ago, with her rudely rebuffed because she had said the wrong thing. She wants to be near him and speak to him for as long as she can.

But he is the one to pull away, leaving Sansa a half-melted mass of bones and burning flesh, quivering in his lap. Her eyes are glazed with desire she is sure, but the look on his face is inscrutable. He frowns slightly, as if irritated with her - or himself, and she yearns to kiss his heavy brow to rid him of it.

Just as she leans forward to do so, he rasps, 'I should take you back.'

She stills. 'To the feast?'

'To your chamber.'

'But why?'

He sighs angrily, and she thinks he might be cross with her. 'You know what would happen if we were to be found here.'

Sansa almost doesn't care. Joffrey had released her from her betrothal to him, and the Lady Margaery was on her way to the city from Highgarden, soon to be married to the king instead. _There is nothing he can do to me now, _Sansa tells herself. Of course, deep down she knows that isn't true. But it's hard not to believe it true now, curled up in the lap of the most fearsome warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, with his arms wrapped protectively around her. He said he'd never let any of them hurt her again, or he'd kill them. He _said._

She flashes him her brightest, most beguiling smile. It's the smile she used to save for entrancing Joffrey. The Hound sees it and merely scoffs at her.

'You think you'll still be smiling when both our heads are on spikes along the city walls?' his spits. 'Corpses don't smile, little bird. They stink of blood and shit and the ravens peck out their eyes.'

Her mind flits back to that day. She remembers the hot sun, beating down upon her face as she stood staring at the head of the man who used to be her father. The smile fades from her face. _Why does he have to say such hateful things? _'I know,' she replies.

'Then you'll understand why I have to take you back.' He wipes his hand across his forehead, as if making a particularly weighty decision. 'This was a fucking stupid idea anyway.'

His words release a tidal wave of emotions in her: anger, disappointment, embarrassment and hurt – hurt most of all. _He thinks this was a stupid idea. _The thought of it makes her feel like a silly child. _He doesn't like me after all. _

'You don't like me.' The statement falls from her lips as she thinks it, her voice thin and tremulous in her ears.

His angry, rasping laugh cuts through her as though she were made of glass. 'It's not a question of whether or not I like you. You belong to the king, and he'd have my cock ripped off if he found me in here with you.'

'Not anymore,' she retorts. 'He publicly released me from the betrothal, now I don't belong to anyone.' She knows it's only falsehood, uttered with unbelieving lips to give herself some comfort, but she says it anyway.

He looks her dead in the face. 'You really are a stupid little bird, aren't you?'

Sansa wants to huff at his insult, but she stops herself. 'Please, I don't want to go, not yet. Let's stay here just a little while longer, then I'll go back. Please?'

Then, as if that had settled the matter, she tightens her arms around his neck and presses herself against him once more. Her head fits neatly into the crook of his neck, she notices, and she hopes that he won't still try to get up. _If he were to leave now after my shameless pleading, I would die. _

But he doesn't, and they sit together for a little while. She strokes her fingers along the fabric of his jerkin, trailing the badly sewn stitches that hold the flaps of leather together. They definitely aren't as good as they straight stitches she could sew. She imagines herself sitting in front of a fire, darning clothes and fixing rips and tears, and sewing tiny dogs and wolves onto shirts and cloaks and blankets. The idea fills her with a peace and contentment she never thought it would.

But with their bodies pressed close together, her mind returns to the reason she had dragged him in here. She didn't really _know _why; she only knows now that she has an unexplainable need to be close to him. It occurs to her that she has no idea what has been going through his mind this evening. _Does he feel the same way? _He hadn't confirmed any dislike for her when she'd just asked him earlier, but then he hadn't denied it either._ Does he just feel indifference towards me? _She had to know.

'What you did…' she pauses and her cheeks burn, though from embarrassment or the pleasure of remembrance she doesn't know. '… in the hall. Why did you do that?'

'Why do you ask? Didn't you like it?' His voice is mocking, and Sansa would have shrank from his tone were she not so shocked by his question. She raises her head and stares at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, rendered utterly speechless by how to reply.

'Most women like it when a man licks their cunt.'

The burst of jealousy that rips through her chest surprises her. _Most women? _What does he mean by that? How many other women has he done this to? For a moment she believes that it can't be anyone, for she knows for certain that he has no wife. Then the realisation hits her.

'Your whores, you mean.' _Jealous of a whore? _This evenings events seem to have addled her brain.

He snorts derisively. 'I've got no desire to put my mouth where hundreds of other men have squirted their seed.' He looks her straight in the eye and adds, 'Your cunt is another matter though.'

She squeaks, and buries her face in his shoulder. This conversation is utterly indecent, and she should leave right away. But if that were true, then why does her heart pound so fiercely in her chest? Why are her arms wrapped so tightly around his neck? She _wills_ herself to let him go, but she cannot; she only presses her face more tightly into him as he laughs at her.

'Your cunt tastes like the finest honeyed wine, little bird. Did you know that?'

Her belly pulls tight, and that throbbing has started again between her legs. She wants to shake her head in amazement; she cannot believe that it is merely his words that have such an effect on her. He seems to know it too, for he carries on talking, enjoying her embarrassment.

'I know you liked it,' he says. 'You were as wet as a tavern wench.' His fingers pinch her jaw and cease her squirming, as he pulls her face to his, making her look right at him. 'I bet you still are.'

When she dares to reply her voice is a shattered whisper, broken into a thousand pieces from both lust and embarrassment. 'Yes, I liked it.'

The admission releases something within her. She knows exactly what she wants now, knows she has crossed that invisible line and there really is nowhere to go but forward.

'You asked me before what I was doing.'

'Aye.'

'Well, I wanted… I thought…' The words don't come easily. They stick in her throat and she stumbles, looking down at her dress and picking at a stray thread. 'I wanted to help… to make you…' She flushes madly under his intense stare. He says nothing, not even a sly prompt to ease her embarrassment. She knows exactly why. _He wishes for me to say the words myself._

'…I wanted to return the favour,' she finally says shyly. 'For what you did in the hall.'

'And how would you do that?' His voice rumbles in his chest.

Now she will have to admit that she truly has no idea of how to please him. 'I don't know, my lord.' She takes a deep breath and looks into his eyes, beyond mortified at what she's about to ask. 'Could you show me?'

The corner of his mouth twitches. 'You don't know what's bloody good for you, little bird,' he says, but while he's speaking he starts to fumble with the laces of his breeches, undoing buttons and catches and who-knows what else. She watches him with mounting trepidation, nerves bubbling away inside of her, until she's so full with excited apprehension that she can hardly breathe. His lap is mostly in shadow as they are faced away from the window, nevertheless when her eyes fall upon his manhood, there is no mistaking it. It's the first one she's ever seen, except her brothers' when they were younger, but that didn't count, and she finds herself shocked at the sheer enormous _size_ of the thing. She knows how babies are made, but looking down upon him she cannot bring herself to believe that his manhood could ever fit inside a woman, especially the way it jutted out like that. _It looks as stiff as a board._

'I don't know what to do.' It embarrasses her to admit it again. _Perhaps he will throw me from his lap and wander off in search of a woman more experienced? _She hopes with all her heart that he won't.

'What do you want to do?'

She isn't sure. She desperately wants to please him, to pleasure him… but is utterly terrified of doing the wrong thing. His scorn or laughter would be more than she could bear.

Carefully, deliberately, she reaches out her hand. She goes slowly, so that if this decision turns out to be a major mistake on her part he can quickly correct her, but he doesn't. His eyes are glued to her hand as her fingers make contact with his hardened cock.

She was right. _He is as stiff as a board, and so warm. _She trails her fingertips over him; they ghost gently along his skin – which is much softer than she expected – and he takes a breath. He sucks it in, through his teeth, and it's so unlike him that she pauses for a moment and looks at him questioningly. He gives her a nod, and she knows what it means. _Go on._

Sansa presses a little harder, savours the feeling of his warm skin beneath her fingertips. She explores his whole length, follows the vein on the underside of his manhood right up to the tip, which is tight and swollen and wet with some kind of moisture, familiarising herself with the length and girth and curve of him. She doesn't have long, however, before he takes her hand in his and wraps it fully around his shaft.

He's so big that her fingers barely meet around the other side. For a split second, Sansa wonders what he means for her to do, but deep down she already knows. She can feel it in her bones; the impulse to stroke her palm up and down the whole length of him surges through her. Finally, with his big hand covering hers, he begins to slide them both up and down, torturously slow and steady right to the tip of him, then back down to the base. Sansa watches wide eyed. She can feel him thrumming with tension, feel his hot blood pumping underneath her fingers as together they establish a delicious rhythm that makes him squirm in the seat. When he squeezes his hand over hers, pressing her fingers harder into his own skin, it elicits such a groan from him that she's surprised that a hundred armed men don't burst in on them straightaway. Then he lets go and it's all her, own her own.

Sansa had never thought that it could thrill her so much to have such an effect on him, but it does. This man, this warrior, so arrogant and fearsome and indifferent to everyone he meets, sits underneath her, overcome with pleasure at her hands, and it makes her ache with want. She aches for him in ways that should never even cross the mind of a high born girl such as herself, but they cross her mind anyway, much as it surprises her. In the hall, he had put his mouth on her, used his tongue and it had felt so good… _Maybe I could do that?_

She would have to get down off his lap first. Giving him a quick kiss, she carefully extricates herself from his embrace and stands up. Then she takes a deep breath, and kneels before him.

The look on his face is one of complete shock, although he says nothing and she shuffles closer, until she is kneeling right between his legs. _Where shall I put my hands? _Now they are not sitting so intimately, the thought of wrapping her hands around him once more makes her blush, so instead she decides to rest her palms on his thighs.

He seems to sense her hesitation. 'Don't worry, little bird.'

His words calm her slightly. She leans down and does the chastest thing she can think of - she softly kisses the tip of his cock, making his long legs jerk under her fingers and his hips buck. His reaction puts her somewhat at ease – _I must have done something right. _Feeling slightly braver, she parts her lips and takes him in her mouth. It's only for a second, just enough time for her tongue to gently flick across his swollen cockhead, but the groan that rips from his throat is loud and unrestrained.

Sansa beams with delight at her achievement. 'What shall I do now?'

'Suck,' he rasps at her.

She bends her head once more to follow his demand. With the head of his cock in her mouth, sucking seems like the most natural thing in the world. Her cheeks hollow as she does it, tenderly at first, then a little bit harder as the expletives rain from his lips.

'Seven fucking hells.'

He seems to be having the same physical reaction to her as she did to him earlier. His legs tremble against her, taut belly rising and falling with every controlled, deliberate breath. Every so often his hips would buck upwards, and a little more of his length would push its way inside her mouth. Sansa sucks on that too, her tongue stroking the smooth underside of his manhood as his hand comes up to cradle her head and tangle in her hair, the most intimate of gestures.

Her palms are still resting flat upon his thighs, but suddenly she's no longer satisfied with the meagre contact it provides. She wants to feel allof him under her, touch as much of his skin as possible – well, as much of his skin that is showing anyway. Her fingers are restless, they itch for something to do, something to _touch_. She brings her hand up, seemingly without conscious permission from her brain, and wraps it around his shaft. This time it strokes away without hesitation.

Looking up from underneath her eyelashes, her gaze locks with his while she sucks on him. Despite the darkness she cannot mistake the look of heat in his eyes, the way the muscles in his neck strain when she swirls her tongue around and across the slit at the tip of his cock.

'Deeper.'

Another bout of nerves flutter delicately in her tummy. With her lips wrapped around the head of him, she feels as though she has quite enough of him in her mouth already, but his hand is still cradling her head and he pushes her down, not ungently, to take more of him in.

He seems to like that most of all, by the sound of it. Still a tiny bit unsure, Sansa allows him to direct her, letting the hand that's tightened in her hair guide her actions. It's very much like what she was doing earlier, she thinks, only now the warm cavern of her mouth has replaced the silky softness of her palm. Under his control, she dips her head low, back up to catch his eye, then down again. She sucks on him softly as she slowly repeats her actions, up and down, up and down, up and down until his growls and moans fill her ears and overload her senses.

She goes on, until her jaw starts to ache and the whole thing becomes rather messy. She gags once or twice - her throat constricting and her mouth filling with saliva – and she wonders how he would feel should he look down to see his cock slick with her spit. It certainly makes _her_ wrinkle her nose in distaste, but he doesn't seem to care; his breath is heavy and his grunts loud, when all of a sudden he grabs her head and yanks him off her.

Sansa wonders perhaps if she's done something horribly wrong to provoke such a powerful reaction from him. She watches as his hand immediately replaces her mouth, and he fucks into his fist so hard and so fast that huge ropes of thick pearly liquid are soon spurting from the end of his shaft. They splatter across his thighs and belly and her hands as well, but she doesn't even notice it – she's utterly transfixed by the sight of him. His hips buck against her, and she knows that he's reached that moment, like her in the hall, where she'd become overtaken with lust. Sansa imagines that hot, sweet intensity pulsing through his body the same as it had hers, making him numb with pleasure. It gives her such pleasure in return, to know that she is the person with whom he has reached that peak. Even more so, when she hears him groan her name.

'Little bird…'

After a moment, his breathing stills and he looks at her. She's still on her knees, and uncomfortable though it is, Sansa is unwilling to move. _I enjoy being this close to him, _she realises. He seems to feel the same way too, for he reaches forward, pulls her up to him and kisses her hard.

'Was that the first time you've sucked a mans cock?'

Sansa looks at him, affronted. She wasn't a common harlot - she was a lady. 'Of course!'

Her indignant response earns her a rough laugh. 'Good.'

'Was I…' Sansa stills. 'Was I very terrible at it?'

He pauses for a second, while she waits in trepidation for his answer. When he finally replies, his hands stroke her back and his voice is a gentle caress in her ear. 'Little bird, you took me straight to the seven heavens with that sweet mouth of yours.'

Her heart swells at his admission. It was an utterly un-Hound thing to say, and she wonders if perhaps the man behind the Hound, Sandor Clegane, was in fact a different person altogether, and the words had actually come from his mouth instead. But she pushes that thought from her mind and settles herself back into his chest. She knows soon they'll have to leave – he'll go back to being the disgraced ex-Kingsguard who abandoned his post and his king, and she'll go back to being the disgraced ex-betrothed, daughter of two traitors, one dead and one still living. She doesn't want to leave him, there are so many things unsaid between them. Nevertheless, for Sansa Stark, those last words of his were enough to satisfy her heart from the time being.


End file.
